Looking with Wonder

My right eyelid is twitching again and I am reminded why I started this "Crackerjacks and Nutters" blog.  It is so easy to fall off the horse that's holding you up.

Perhaps it is the third cup of coffee I chugged this morning, or that I am listening to James McDonald shout at me from the speakers of my tiny radio in the cake shop, but I am definitely jittery this morning.  Even my hands are shaking as I type this.

Time to breathe.
.
.
.
There.
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.
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Nope, still twitching.

Maybe my blood sugar is low and I need to eat a cupcake...

*****

All of the silly worries that build up to anxiety.  What do you do to bring it all back down?

This brings to mind a conversation I had with my eight-year-old son last night:

It was at bedtime after we prayed for what tomorrow would bring; he and his sister, playing and learning at school, and I, entertaining potential wedding clients through delightful conversation and delicious cake.

He leans over to me with a big, innocent smile on his face.

"Wouldn't it be nice, Mom, if you woke up tomorrow and God had made your store all perfect and pretty for your customers?"

Ah, yes, I think.  A surprise interior decorator.

"Decorating fairies," I said.

"No," he corrected me. "Angels."

Such sweetness, and loyalty to his Father. I swallowed up his words and held them in my heart.  He is such a gift to me.

It is in these moments that I realize no matter what worries are in this adult brain of mine, God sincerely wants me to enjoy the little things in life, and, like a child, look on it with wonder and the magic of all His world contains.

No amount of caffeine or sugar will bring that about.  In all the moments I waste on worry, God sighs and says, "Oh, Erin."

What about you?  Does He sigh and shake His head in love as you once again fret about the things you shouldn't?  Or have you learned to look around with wonder and take joy in the moment?

Memories of a Living House

It’s silly to some that a house could be a living being; a place filled with voices and glimpses of memories, resting on deep, deep roots.  It can take years to build such a place, and sometimes you don’t realize it has been created until it is gone.

            We were met with shaking news yesterday. Our childhood home had been destroyed by fire.  Although my parents had moved out while I was in University, it was still in their possession, and it was the last place I lived before I “grew up”.

            The place was thick with memories: the sound of screaming fights between sisters; the smell of mom’s meatloaf; the rough feel of the front railing that I was supposed to sand.  I can picture the laminate kitchen floor, and the back entranceway with all of dad’s ball caps hanging above the door. There was the wood trim Dad had brought to its original glory, the TV room where Lord knows what was hidden under the couch, my sister’s room where guinea pigs multiplied, my brother’s room where the ceiling fell in, and my parent’s room where the most significant discussions in my life happened while mom folded laundry.

            The big front window was where my friends and I hid on our last Halloween night after egging several cars that drove by.  Mom physically kicked my butt and said, “The dumbest thing you can do is come here to hide! Now they know who you are!”

I had to wash the neighbour’s car the next morning.

            Dad built us a “fort” outside, too sturdy to be any fun.  The maple trees filled our yard with bright orange leaves each fall.  We played soccer and baseball in the backyard with our cousins every summer.  Watercolour paints, brushes, dry muffins and a cup of tea surrounded mom regularly at the dining room table.

            For me, as for any teenage girl, my room was sacred.  When voting for who would get the large attic as a bedroom, I won by sheer tidiness (not the case anymore) as my sister continually got lost in her belongings.  For years I arranged and rearranged the furniture in my gigantic room, blasted rock music to the rafters after a bad day at school, and cried my eyes out when rejected by a boy.  I would sit at the bottom of the stairs and gab to my girlfriend with the phone cord stretched through the crack in the attic door so my mom wouldn’t hear.

            I chose my path in life here, I found Jesus Christ here, and I stood at the front door in my awful prom dress with my awful prom date and got my awful photo taken (which is now destroyed) here.

I played the piano every night while my parents patiently pretended they could sleep through it here.

            And I spent endless hours sitting on the front porch ironically wishing I lived somewhere else, and was born to a different family here. 

Such is the life of a teenage girl.

            With a faith that promotes not looking on the things of this world, I believe the Lord gives us beautiful things because He knows we need love, enjoyment, comfort and safety.  As I look on the pictures of the melted siding, the broken wooden scalloped tiles, and the smoke billowing out of what was once my room, my heart is broken. 

I know tomorrow I will get over it and realize it is just a house.  But today I will mourn. 

Man, I loved that house.

My First Cake

When I was a kid living at home, I got it into my head to make my mom a birthday cake.  Cake mix?  Easy.  Icing? Not so much.  I remember searching through her books for a recipe on icing or frosting.  I had no idea how to make it, no concept as to what made it thick and fluffy.  I’m pretty sure I closed my eyes and pointed to a random recipe in the dessert section.

I went to work and combined all of the ingredients in a pot and cooked it on the stove.  I stirred and stirred and it cooked and cooked.  Stirred and cooked.  Stirred and cooked.

Eventually, I lifted the pot off of the heat and let it cool.  It was a brown colour (maybe from too much vanilla) so I decided I needed to change the colour.  I looked into Mom’s pantry and found blue food colouring.  Unfortunately, blue mixed with that particular shade of brown makes puke green.

Once cooled, I poured it onto the round cake that was already placed on a cake plate.  As I started, I realized it really wasn’t thick and fluffy at all, but had the consistency of pea soup.  It ran off the cake, onto the plate and onto the table.  Green sticky pea soup everywhere.

Just then my dad walks in the house and senses anxiety.  He steps into the kitchen, and in his “saving the day” dad-vest, scoops up the plate of seeping mess and whisks it out to the back porch which was directly connected to the kitchen.

He masterly scrapes the icing from around the cake sides and plate with the side of a butter knife (experienced from years of mudding and taping walls in our houses) and makes it look semi-okay.  Whew!  I can breath again as he helps contain the disaster it could have been if mom had seen it!

Throughout the five years I have owned my cake business, when he sees one of my new creations, Dad will chuckle, “You’ve come along way from the drippy green icing I helped you scoop up on the back porch!”


And although there have been MANY disasters in the Cakes by Erin kitchen, and some have been witness to it, I have forever mastered the art of buttercream, and will never, ever close my eyes and point to pick a new recipe!

Tougher'n Nails

This morning in church I was reminded of my later teen years, when I was "gung-ho" for Jesus.  The unabashed, blatant love for Christ that many church-going teenagers and young people can have.  In fact, my sister and I both had these gruesome, Good Friday-themed t-shirts with the saying "Jesus, tougher'n Nails" written on them.  They seriously grossed out my mother.  We have a picture of at least one of us donning it proudly.

After years of being raised in the United Church, dad let me venture out to other churches in search of young people and youth groups provided they were teaching about Jesus.  My mother, built of a mixture of worldly knowledge, girly knowledge, and incredible worry, sat me down and said, "You better know what information's coming at you, or you'll up in some cult like David Koresh."  Of course I rolled my eyes, but I never forgot it.

Over the years, I have met many wonderful caring people, in several different congregations.  I have also met several rather misguided, and perhaps scary, individuals who had "great" ideas in healing, and getting to know the Lord.  With my mother's words in my pocket, I managed to keep to the straight and narrow.  I surrounded myself with the Word, teachings of Christ, and the Apostle Paul, and books by Phillip Yancey, Kay Arthur and Max Lucado.

With years of real life chipping away at me, I confess that "gung-ho" attitude has been replaced with a more cautious and serious yet still sincere belief in Christ.  I have many more wounds on my armour than I did back then, but I still believe He is tougher'n nails.

So this morning when our pastor spoke of cults, their leaders, and misguided faith, I thought about the big "doomsday" billboards in the U.S. that proclaimed the end of the world.  Sure, they were wrong, and misguided, and a good laugh, but shouldn't we believe every day is going to be the end of the world?  Shouldn't we live our hours as if He is coming to meet us tomorrow morning?

Now, in hindsight, I do not mean spend all of your money, skip work, or don't have a shower.  I mean spiritually, folks, let get ourselves in gear!  How do we do that? I am probably not the best one to ask, but I know it starts with the little things: saying sorry to your kids for freaking out about something ridiculous; smiling at your neighbour whom you've never really enjoyed; or listening instead of talking.

Think about this: when you meet Christ, and He asks you, "What did you do yesterday?" what will be your answer?

My List of 2011

It's taken me three days to absorb the idea that we are in a new year. Life has continued in it's busyness, and although we celebrated thoroughly, I woke up this morning, three days late, ready to start afresh, and look at my future with a new plan.

When I was younger I used to keep a diary. I've looked back on them recently and laughed at all the "important" things in my life at the time. Dreamy boys mostly. LOL. Times have changed, certainly, but the one thing I always did on New Year's Eve, and on each birthday, was recount the special things I had gone through leading up to that date.

Many blogs I have been following list the crafts they've done, or the posts with the most "hits". Fun, certainly, but lacking substance in my opinion. Even in my teenage lists, it was friendships, accomplishments in my education, and places I'd travelled that were most memorable. As well as the significant moments in my family's life.

I won't bore you with my list, as I'm sure most people will actually click to the next blog to look at the furniture that's been weathered, or the best handmade cards made in 2011. Just know that on my personal list, you'd see things like my children's accomplishments, family losses, and personal goals achieved.

Of course, perhaps in my next post I will list 'The Best Coffee I Drank' or 'Things the Dog Ate' in 2011. That would definitely bring on the post "hits"!

Looking Through a Windshield

Did I ever tell you about the time I was hit by a car? Even my husband doesn't believe me. I was about 18 years-old and visiting a family in northern Ontario. They were a pastor and his family who I'd grown close to; a sporty guy with a wild sense of humour and his sweet wife who cooked, cleaned and looked after anyone who crossed their doorstep.

One night the pastor and I went walking. I think we were headed to the YMCA. When I think back to that night, it was raining and I was wearing my brown leather jacket. I can remember crossing the street at the intersection, and from around the corner came this car.

The car hit me in the legs and knocked me so hard I rolled up onto the windshield. I could see the look of shock on the lady's face as this blond teenager flew up into her view. My friend reached out and grabbed my arm before I flew over the rest of the car, and brought me back down to the street.

The driver got out and asked if I was okay. I could tell she felt bad, worried, and frightened. I felt all right, probably from shock, and told her it was okay. We kept walking. It was really weird. In hindsight, I probably should've gone to the hospital, but we went for a swim instead.

Ironically, the only part of my body that hurt was the arm my friend had pulled to rescue me. Many sessions of physiotherapy ensued.

And the next day, every time someone came to the house, my friend shouted, "YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED TO HER LAST NIGHT! I SAVED HER LIFE!!"

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This summer I ran into my friends again while delivering a wedding cake. We laughed about old times, including this story. Funnily enough, his version involves a lot more of him shouting, running, and lifting me, and the car (and driver) was much bigger.

My version of the story, I think, is closer to the truth and, ultimately, is used as a scare tactic to make my kids hold my hand as we cross the road.

Dumb and Dumber

One day, when I was supposed to be teaching parabolas to my grade 11's, I stopped mid-lesson and told them a story. [I did this often as grade 11 math can be soooo dry.]

As a teenager I was part of a youth group. Each year near the end of the season, we would plan a campout at a nearby Ontario Park. One year we went up to Bon Echo Lake (some students smiled and nodded as they'd been there with their outdoor education class). We got out of the vehicles, and unloaded our gear, happy to have the drive done.

Now our youth group was from a small country church which consisted of a few misfits (I was the exception, of course) thrown together. There were these three guys; one very tall and thin, shaggy brown hair and big square glasses; another, called Red, with freckles and a really thick red mullet; and the third; a shorter version of the first guy, named after the Duke's of Hazard: I can't mention real names, but his parents seriously included Wayne, Beau, and Luke in his name.

So back to the trip. As I said we all got off the bus, and were really excited about being there. Red ran right over to the lake, stepped in a bit and dove in. Now if you know the beach I am talking about, it is all pebbly and shallow, and you do not go diving into it off the shore. He came up, holding his head, bleeding from the mouth and soon realized he'd pushed his front teeth in.

But of course, since we'd just got there he didn't want to ruin the campout so he kept his accident to himself and his two buddies.

Gradually throughout the afternoon as we set up our tents and got the campfire started, one of the leaders noticed Red throwing up behind a bush. After speaking with him for a few minutes, it came about that he'd been walking around the perimeter of the campsite all afternoon, throwing up from what was most likely a concussion.

So the gig was up, and Red was sent to a nearby hospital. He tall, lanky friend had brought a car, and because he didn't want to miss out on the action, the Duke-ster went with. We found out later, after they were safely back, that while Red continued to be sick out the front window for the entire drive, the Duke-ster, while watching his friend's poor state, proceeded to get sick out the back window!

Needless to say, the tall, lanky guy got an extra marshmallow that night, and my students had difficulty getting back to work.